We're Always Short of Time
by alexwacrap
Summary: "Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you for the murder of Doctor Joanna Watson…" This case may be slightly out of Sherlock and Jo's comfort zone... T for swearing and triggers. Fem!John/Genderswap
1. Prologue

Hey all, so I haven't written fiction in about 4 years, then this popped into my head. I have a rough idea of where it's going, but I'm not sure if I should continue, so please read and let me know. Critique would be lovely.

Warnings: major character death (or is it?), fem!John (again, just so you know what you're getting in to), dark, short (only a snippet).

* * *

'Are you ready?'

'You're sure it'll be quick?'

'Yes.'

Joanna took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, drawing herself up. 'Okay.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, 'We don't have to do this.'

'You need this.'

'It doesn't have to happen this way'

'What other way then?'

There were other options, he knew, but none would be as effective. Truly, he'd known the instant he found a way to change things that this was what would happen. This is what needed to happen. At the same time, he wasn't sure if he could go through with it. Joanna was his blogger, his flatmate, his friend and confidante, and he knew doing this would break him.

'I won't be far behind,' he murmured, unsure if he was speaking to her or himself.

She touched his arm. In the darkened street she seemed pale. He knew she'd be grey in a moment and took the chance to study her. Living, breathing, _alive_, and gazing at him with such utter trust that he knew he would follow her as soon as the task was done.

'I wouldn't be far behind,' he repeated, touching a hand to her hair. She closed her eyes.

Then he stepped forward and with one smooth movement, slit her throat.

* * *

Continue?


	2. Chapter 1

Hello! Thanks for your interest. I'm sorry it took so long. Uni took my soul, then there were exams and I fell out of fandom, then I had to get back in to fandom. Now I've found plotholes and every time I close one, another one opens up.

This is some of what I've written so far, updates may be slow, but only if there's enough interest, I suppose. Enjoy.

* * *

'Are you ready?'

'You're sure it'll be quick?'

'Yes.'

Joanna took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, drawing herself up. 'Okay.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, 'We don't have to do this.'

'You need this.'

'It doesn't have to happen this way'

'What other way then?'

There were other options, he knew, but none would be as effective. Truly, he'd known the instant he found a way to change things that this was what would happen. This is what needed to happen. At the same time, he wasn't sure if he could go through with it. Joanna was his blogger, his flatmate, his friend and confidante, and he knew doing this would break him.

'I won't be far behind,' he murmured, unsure if he was speaking to her or himself.

She touched his arm. In the darkened street she seemed pale. He knew she'd be grey in a moment and took the chance to study her. Living, breathing, _alive_, and gazing at him with such utter trust that he knew he would follow her as soon as the task was done.

'I wouldn't be far behind,' he repeated, touching a hand to her hair. She closed her eyes.

Then he stepped forward and with one smooth movement, slit her throat.

* * *

Having Joanna out of the flat should have been a blessing. Really. The silence was beautiful. No muttering. No nagging. No complaints about the noxious gases emanating from the pot on the stove. He was able to update his site and knowledge in peace. Or he would be, if not for the persistent buzzing.

He couldn't quite explain it, not that he would ever admit that to anyone, but it only began when Joanna was out of the flat (_on a date, of all things. Can't she see he's only trying to show up his ex?_).

Her pursuits did not trouble him (_did _not), what did trouble him was that there was no muttering, nagging or complaints about the noxious gases emanating from the pot on the stove. Although, if any of the above were to be present, the previous statement would need to be swiftly rescinded.

Furthermore, he found himself bored. A week since the last case, and he was already descending into what Joanna had labelled, "Stage 3": Persistently-Impossible-to-Live-With Sherlock. (This was followed by Stage 4: Soon-to-Be-Smothered-With-the-Cushion-He's-Been-Sleeping-On-For-Too-Long Sherlock.) The current Stage 2: Very-Quickly-Becoming-Extremely-Annoying Sherlock, only warranted escapes (and attempted escapes) from the flat several times a day. Unfortunately, this also saw the rise of Too-Desperately-Attempting-to-Rekindle-Failing-Love-Life Joanna, which was simply inconvenient.

The sound of the doorbell made Sherlock blink. The computer clock read 10:20pm. Too early for Joanna, too late for a client. Case? No apparent sense of urgency. Dimly, he heard Mrs. Hudson ask the caller to identify himself before opening the door (_familiar with the caller),_ footsteps on the stairwell (_heavy tread, at least three visitors_), then:

'Sherlock, dear, he insist- '

'Sherlock, could you stand up please.'

Lestrade. And two officers.

'Sherlock.'

That tone. He remembers that tone (_It's a game_). He remembers that expression (_Not one I'm willing to play_).

'You're here to arrest me,' Sherlock says, rising from his chair. 'What have I done to warrant it this time?'

Lestrade sighs, running a hand over his face. 'Christ.' He motions to an officer, who proceeds to step forward, brandishing handcuffs. Sherlock rolls his eyes and sets the laptop onto the seat of the chair, holding his arms out in resignation. He couldn't remember doing anything especially illegal of late, so why…

'Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you for the murder of Doctor Joanna Watson…'

The buzzing takes over.

* * *

They sat him in an interrogation room and left him alone.

_I'm arresting you for the murder of Doctor Joanna Watson…_

_…the murder of Doctor Joanna Watson…_

_What?_

He couldn't make any sense of it.

He, Sherlock Holmes, didn't understand. _She went on a date!_

'I don't understand,' he says aloud to an empty room.

Murder. Joanna has been murdered. On her date? He needed data.

It came in the form of Sergeant Donavon. She sits in the chair across from him and places a computer on the table. Lestrade hovers in the corner of the room, the Superintendent is no doubt on the other side of the two-way glass.

Donavon is speaking. '…can you verify your whereabouts at 9:30pm this evening?'

Joanna left for her date at 8o'clock, Mrs. Hudson returned from dinner with Mrs. Turner at 10.

'My flat,' he mutters tonelessly, still thinking.

'Can anyone confirm that?'

Mycroft? (_Not if you didn't want him to_). 'No.'

She looks at him for a moment. He doesn't look at her. She flips open the computer, and after a few clicks, turns it so he can see the screen. CCTV footage, clear, timestamped, raw evidence. Of him (_not_). And Joanna (_no_). In a side-street somewhere in Southwark. They are speaking, close, intimate. Sherlock almost wants to turn away, feeling like an intruder, but he doesn't, leaning close to the screen instead.

When it happens he's not expecting it. The screen-him moves quickly, without any hesitation, shifting out of the way of the blood-splatter to catch her falling body from behind, and laying her twitching form on the ground. He doesn't linger and is quickly gone from view. The body remains.

Sherlock sits back, suddenly, and stares at the screen as it goes dark.

'You'll be kept in holding…'

He rises and starts pacing the room, agitated.

'…until your arraignment hearing…'

He runs his hands through his hair, yanking at it. 'Shut up.'

'…at a date to be determined…'

'_Shut up_.'

'…at which time you will be- '

'_SHUT UP!_'

She stops. For a moment. 'What are you feeling guilty now?'

He falls back against the wall. 'I didn't…'

Donavon jumps up. 'You did! It's right there!' she waves her hand at the computer.

He shakes his head. Nothing makes _sense_. Everything is jumbled, and _where is Joanna? _(_where is she where is she I _need_ her…_)

There's a hand on his shoulder. At some point he'd slid down the wall and covered his head with his arms. At some point he'd started speaking aloud.

Lestrade is looking at him with concern.

'I need…' his voice fails him. He tries again. 'I need…'

Lestrade nods. 'You're alright, mate.'

And again. 'I need to see the body.'

Donavon scoffs. 'Yeah, no. Not happening.'

Sherlock rises. 'I _need - _'

'Sherlock,' Lestrade speaks quietly, voice full of pity, 'no.'

'You've seen her already,' snaps Donavon. 'Tell me, did it feel good? Hm? Killing her? Oh, we know you've killed before, but why the Doctor? Why now?'

Sherlock bristles. He's made no secret of the things he'd done in his three year absence, never going into detail, but sharing enough for them to know who was and wasn't a threat. It doesn't matter now. 'I didn't.'

'What did you say to her? Did you say you were sorry?'

'I didn't kill her.'

'Or did you gloat? She was just starting to really trust you again, wasn't she? What did she say to you?'

'I didn't do this.' He enunciates each word slowly and clearly, but knows it is futile. Lestrade is scrubbing his hands through his hair, shoulders slumped in defeat. That alone is enough to tell him he wouldn't win.

Donavon stares at him for a silent moment and sighs. 'I thought you were different now.' She shrugs, 'Shows how much I know. Come on.' She moves forward with handcuffs, but Lestrade raises a hand.

'I don't think we need those.'

'Greg…'

'Would you look at him, Sally. He's in shock.'

Is he? Sherlock looks down at his hands. Oh, shaking. Perhaps yes then. Lestrade takes him by the arm and pulls him gently from the room, across the floor to the lift. He is numbly aware of people staring, and then, an impossible voice.

'Wait! Stop!'

* * *

AN: Theories and constructive criticism are welcome. I will try to reply to any questions, let me know if anything is especially unclear, as I don't have a beta-reader. Thank you, lovelies.


	3. Chapter 2

A.N. Hello again! Thanks for all the faves and follows. And the review (just one? Come on guys. It takes all of two seconds!). This chapter was edited (hello, Liz!), but I'm still not sure about the tenses, sorry.

* * *

It was going so well. The restaurant was lovely. The show was interesting. Unfortunately they both had one common denominator; the ex. David kept assuring her that it was just a bizarre coincidence ('I had no idea! Maybe she knew I would be here…'), but when he reached over and put his hand on her knee the second the buxom brunette glanced their way, Joanna had mentally berated herself for her idiocy and resolved to leave during the intermission.

She also chooses to blame her flatmate, because he _knew_. The way he kept smirking as she stumbled from bathroom to bedroom in her unfamiliar heels, the raised eyebrow as she asked if he'd seen her phone, the laughter in his eyes as she said goodnight and dashed down the stairs (sans phone, of course, he'd destroyed her battery in some experiment or other, _and what was that smell?_). The bastard. He had well and truly earned himself a smack across the back of the head. She could forgive David, but Sherlock would gloat and revel in the humiliating scene.

She knew he was trying to censor himself, at least a little, since he'd returned. But after five months of surprisingly un-Sherlockian behaviour, she was beginning to wish he'd simply out and tell her everything she doesn't want to hear. Three years people had been skirting the truth ('_You look better today.' Bullshit_), and even when Sherlock toppled back into her life (_literally, they had only just managed to paint the ceiling_), that hadn't necessarily changed.

David still has his hand on her knee when the lights came on for the intermission. She rises. 'Well, thanks for dinner-'

He looks surprised. 'You're leaving?'

Joanna smiles. 'I don't think you're interested in either me or the show.' She pats him on the shoulder and joins the crowd heading for the foyer. It is only past ten, so she walks a bit before looking for a taxi at Victoria Station. By the time she returns to Baker Street, it is half-past. The lights are still on upstairs, but all seems quiet. Not Stage Three then, not yet - good. She smiles to herself as she digs out her key. She'd never admit to missing Sherlock's Stages of Boredom, but there was a strange comfort to their predictability. There was a strange comfort to all of it.

Now, she slips inside and pushes the door shut. Sighing wearily and tugging off her coat.

Suddenly, Mrs. Hudson's door flies open, startling her. The woman herself rushes from the flat into the entryway brandishing a…

'Mrs. H. Are you threatening me with your kettle?'

The older woman freezes, kettle aloft, eyes wide and red. 'Jo?'

Joanna, frowns. 'Well, yes.'

The kettle falls to the ground with a thump, and Mrs. Hudson throws her arms around Joanna's shoulders, sobbing. Jo pats her back, confused. 'You okay there, Mrs. H? What's happened?'

Through the wet and muffled cries, Jo can make out the words "police", "Sherlock" and "arrested". She huffs. 'What, again? Why this time?'

Mrs. Hudson pulls back abruptly. 'Oh, dear! They said he murdered you!'

Joanna blinks. _What?_ 'Oh. Right.' She paused. 'Why?'

The landlady shakes her head and sniffles. 'Oh, I don't know dear, you're alive and well and it's best you tell them that.' She pushes her toward the door. 'Hurry now!' And quite quickly, Joanna is outside again, donning her coat and looking up and down the street for a taxi to no avail. She turns and hurries up the street to Marylebone.

Murdered? Certainly not, if she'd been murdered her feet wouldn't hurt this much.

She flags down the first cab she sees. 'Scotland Yard. Please.' She must have looked harried, because the driver wound through traffic- and pedestrians- with purpose, his sharp turns lurching her against the door. Not twenty minutes later, Joanna is hopping out of the cab and rushing into the NSY building. She waits outside the lifts for no more than two minutes before giving up and heading for the stairs.

As she reaches the homicide offices, she sees Lestrade leading a pale-looking Sherlock towards the lifts, Sally Donavon in tow.

'Wait! Stop!'

She runs forward until she is stood in front of them, and doubles over, panting. 'Not. Dead.'

People are staring. Greg and Sally look gobsmacked, Sherlock is as close to stunned as she's ever seen him, but she can't relish the moment because she is still struggling to catch her breath. She waves a hand in the air, gestures behind her then down. 'Stairs. Shoes. Oh my God.' She leans on a nearby desk.

'You're not dead,' blurts Donavon.

Joanna gasps. 'No.'

Then Sherlock is there. Fingers gently tucking up her chin and running over the skin of her throat. He frowns at her and she shakes her head and shrugs. He turns back to Lestrade and Donavon.

'I need to see the footage again.'

* * *

Joanna enters Lestrade's office with two cups, one coffee, black, two sugars for Sherlock, and one coffee, white, three sugars for a still-shocked Detective-Inspector. She is now decidedly shorter given the absence of the heels she's left near the pot plant in the corner of the room. Sherlock's cup she places on the desk near his elbow, whereupon he looks up at her as though to assure himself she is really there. Greg's she places in his hand. He stares at her, shaking his head.

'We got that footage five minutes after it happened. It was recorded live. There's no way it was doctored, there's a body for God's sake!'

'Not Joanna's body,' Sherlock replies, not taking his eyes from the screen. Jo walks around to where he is sitting in Lestrade's customary chair.

'Let me see?'

He looks her over, nods once and taps a key. As she watches, her hand flits to her throat and she grimaces. 'Hang on, freeze it?'

Sherlock does so. Joanna points to the screen. 'I don't own a sweater like that… Granted I own a lot of sweaters…' She looks at Sherlock with some concern. 'Surely you knew that?'

He frowns at the screen. No, she doesn't own such an item, pale blue from the looks of it. 'I was rather distracted,' he mutters (_Because you were dead and I didn't know what to do_). She places a hand on his forearm as though reading his thoughts, and pinches the bridge of her nose with her other hand.

'May we see the body now?' Sherlock asks Lestrade, sharply.

Greg stares at him for a moment. 'You're still our only suspect…'

'In what?' Joanna mutters, looking back at the frozen image. 'There's been no crime, and I'm the victim! I give him permission to!'

Greg shakes his head again and takes a swig of his coffee. 'Do whatever you want. It's with Molly.'

Sherlock stands and sweeps out of the room in a flurry of coattails. Jo grabs her shoes and hurries after him, casting a sympathetic glance back at the exhausted DI.

* * *

'Have you seen that sweater before?'

Joanna looks across the seat at Sherlock, who is pointedly avoiding eye contact. 'No, I can't say I have.' He doesn't respond. 'What are you thinking?' she asks.

He says nothing.

'Sherlock,' she begins, 'don't clam up now, you said you wouldn't do this again.'

His eyes slide to her briefly. 'I have no theories as yet. I need more data.'

She nods. 'Okay.'

'I will tell you if anything comes to mind.'

'Okay.'

He looks back out the window.

* * *

Reviews are great motivators guys. Stress with uni means that is something I'm sorely lacking. Please do review!


	4. Chapter 3

**Merry (belated) Christmas! Thanks for the favs and follows, and sorry about the slow updates, I have a thesis to write and a group experiment to do, and my group is unbearable. I'm getting rid of chapter titles because they're awful.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

Molly looks relieved as they enter the morgue. 'Jo, I'm so glad you're okay.'

Joanna nods in acknowledgement. Her relationship with Molly has been frosty since her part in Sherlock's deception was revealed. For the first few weeks, Joanna openly avoided her for fear of losing her temper. Then, almost a month after Sherlock's return, there was a case involving multiple child victims and a "vampire", and Molly was solicited to help. The first time she and Joanna were in a room together everyone seemed on-edge. When the case wrapped up, Molly awkwardly invited Joanna to a coffee shop where she cried and apologised and cried some more, to Joanna's chagrin, and Joanna really had no choice but to hug the woman and assure her she was forgiven.

'Have you run DNA tests?' Joanna is brought back to the present by Sherlock, who only has eyes for the form under the sheet.

Molly looks up at him with no trace of embarrassment. She had admitted to being angry at being placed in her situation, and hasn't shown the same affection for him since his return. 'It's just processing now. I'll go upstairs and check.' She hurries from the room, giving Jo a brief smile as she does so. As the door clicks shut, Joanna and Sherlock move to the head of the body at the same time. They share a significant look.

'Are you ready?' he asks, voice low.

She nods. He folds the sheet back.

'Christ,' she hisses, retreating one step, two. 'That's me.'

Sherlock touches a hand to the corpse's cheek and looks up, eyes gazing at a middle distance, thinking. Joanna approaches the examination table again, adopting a clinical persona as best she can, leaning forward hesitantly to examine the wound in the throat.

'Deep. Clean. No trace of hesitation. I would've…' Sherlock flinches and she realises her mistake. No. Not "I". 'I mean she would've died quickly,' Joanna finishes.

Sherlock pushes himself back and starts pacing the length of the table. 'What is this?'

She can see frustration starting to mount.

'I wouldn't do this.'

She pulls the sheet back further to examine the left shoulder. A scar, small and straight just like her own. She looks up at him. 'There's another me, perhaps there's another you.'

'I wouldn't. Not ever.'

Joanna looks pointedly at the body. 'Well, apparently, you would.'

He growls in frustration. 'But it's not _me_!'

'Hypothetically speaking, would you have a reason for this?' She steps around the table to block his path, 'Treat it as a puzzle, be _logical_ about it, why would you have done this?' She thinks back to the footage, 'Why would I let you?'

'It's _not_ me! I can't have- I'd never- _I wouldn't!_' He spins away looking wild, hands gripping his hair.

She stares at herself on the table. 'Why would I let you?'

Sherlock slams both fists on the metal of the neighbouring exam table, making her jump.

'I wouldn't,' he repeats, quietly. She approaches him cautiously and touches a tense shoulder.

'Sherlock - '

He turns to stare at her with an intense gaze. His eyes sharpen whenever she uses his name now, she refused to use it for almost a month after his return.

_'Tea?'_

_A muffled sound from the sofa._

_'Sherlock.'_

_She can't believe he fast he sits up and is staring down at her._

_'Hello,' she says, sheepishly._

_He smiles, honest and open. 'Hello.'_

She bites her lower lip. 'Hello.'

And just like that, he relaxes, and a ghost of a smile appears on his face.

The door opens and Molly all-but runs in. 'Got it!'

Sherlock turns to her, expectant. 'And?'

She holds up a data film. 'This is Joanna's from her blood test last month,' she holds up another sheet of film, 'and this is from…the…victim.' She layers one over the other.

'Identical,' breathes Joanna.

Sherlock snatches both films and holds them up to the light, looking for differences. 'Impossible,' he growls and spins back to Molly, 'Joanna's file must have been corrupted.' He turns back to Joanna, 'Give her another blood sample,' back to Molly, 'run the test again,' back to Joanna, 'don't leave the room until you get the results back.'

He turns away and begins removing his coat.

'And…what are you going to do?' Joanna asks, hesitantly.

He pauses. 'I'm going to examine the body. Go.'

Jo steps toward him, 'Maybe I could - '

'No,' he interrupts. 'Go. Go with Molly. Now.' He leans forward and speaks low enough for only her to hear, 'I can't have you here for this. Please?'

* * *

Five minutes later, she's ensconced in a lab with Molly, tourniquet around her bicep as she fists her hand. Molly struggles with her latex gloves and a needle and vial lie waiting.

'So,' Jo began, 'how are you?'

Molly shrugged. 'Alright, I guess. The usual, you know.' She brandished the needle and slid it seamlessly under Joanna's skin.

'You've been quiet,' Jo says slowly, 'I'd wondered if something was bothering you.'

Molly withdraws and moves to the other side of the lab to begin the analysis. 'No. I mean, not really.'

Joanna waits.

'It's just…' Molly turns back to her, 'he acts like nothing's changed.' They stare at each other before Molly turns away. 'It doesn't seem right, that's all.'

Jo deliberates for a moment before speaking. 'Not always.'

Molly doesn't look at her. 'What do you mean?'

Again, Joanna doesn't answer straight away. 'He…sleeps when I ask him to, and eats. He plays his violin. Not just sawing at it, actual playing. I think he composed pieces while he was away, but didn't get a chance to practice. He'll sit and watch telly with me without complaint,' she pauses again, now Molly is watching her, 'and sometimes I'll catch him staring at me. I woke up one night to find him sitting at the foot of my bed. Nightmares probably. Or maybe he missed me, I don't know…' She trails off, looking away. She chooses not to mention the heightened need for physical contact he seems to have developed. How he'll rest a hand on her shoulder as he passes her in the kitchen, or sits on the floor, leaning against her legs when she's in her armchair, or rests his head on her shoulder when they're watching telly on the sofa. Those are private things, secret things.

Molly is staring at her curiously. 'I think he still does.' She turns back to her samples.

* * *

Sometime later they meet Sherlock in the corridor as they are returning to the morgue. He looks grim.

'Well?'

Joanna shakes her head.

'Perfect match,' Molly says, handing him the most recent films. He stares at them blankly. Joanna turns to Molly.

'You must be tired, we can take it from here,' she assures her.

Molly nods. 'Let me know if you need anything.' She heads off towards the cafeteria, leaving them alone in the corridor.

Jo looks back at her friend. 'You all right?'

He blinks up at her owlishly. 'I…' He shakes his head, closes his eyes. His free hand reaches for her in the space between them and she takes it in both of her own without hesitation.

'We'll sort it,' she says softly prompting him to open his and stare at her, 'right?'

Sherlock takes a sharp breath and pulls himself from his trance. 'We need to get to the crime scene.' He withdraws his hand and strides past her.

'Now?' she asks, hating how petulant she sounds.

He stops and turns back to look at her. 'Of course.'

'But…'

'What?'

She hesitates then makes a face. 'My feet hurt.'

Sherlock rolls his eyes and steps back to her, shoving the films in one coat pocket.

He huffs. 'What do you propose then?'

'Home, new shoes!'

'No time for that.'

'Well fine, but don't expect me to run barefoot.'

He offers her his arm quite suddenly and without preamble. 'Will this suffice?'

She chuckled and took his arm. 'You can be a very charming git sometimes.'

'Don't tell anyone.'

* * *

**I am so sorry, it's terrible, but as I've almost finished the first draft of the second half, I figure I'll finish posting it anyway if anyone's interested. Have a great New Year's (better than me behind the bar at work, at any rate) and I'll see you in 2013!**


	5. Chapter 4

Whoopsie, sorry about the horrible delay! Uni ( really, no more explanation needed). Thanks for the follows and reviews. I feel like I should warn you now that the ending, when it does come, may seem a bit anticlimactic. I decided that as I'm already bordering on weird (read: well into the realm of), there's no need to overdo it with 'unrealism' (making up a word for my own purposes...)

Run now if that bothers you!

* * *

They arrived at the crime scene to find forensics finishing up. Spotlights had been set up in an alley around the corner from the main set up, some hundred or so metres behind the police tape.

Sherlock seemed hesitant as he got out of the cab. His usual enthusiasm for the thrill of a case had dimmed. Joanna was unsurprised. To his immense displeasure, Sherlock found no one would believe his "high-functioning sociopath" act upon his return to the living. The evidence to disprove the existence of one Richard Brook was overwhelming, especially once Mycroft had his "discussion" with the former Chief Superintendent.

Joanna had little to do with the matter. Relieved though she was to see her best friend's name cleared, she wanted nothing to do with the process itself, preferring to stay well clear of the media frenzy. In retrospect, had she been exposed to any of the questions that were being thrown back and forth at the time, she may well have ended up in prison for unleashing some of her bitter frustration on a not-so-innocent, ginger-haired, female reporter…

They are greeted by a flustered looking Lestrade. Behind him, the forensics team are packing away. 'Expected you to come here first,' he comments, falling into step beside Sherlock, who strides purposefully toward the alley as Jo half-jogs to keep up.

'Body first,' Sherlock snaps, 'ruling out the impossible.' He pauses to look back at the DI, 'And you had me under arrest long enough for your team to make an absolute hash of things.' He turns back to the alley, disappearing around the corner in a flutter of coattails.

Greg huffs a sigh and runs a hand over his face. 'He's not gonna let that go is he?'

Joanna snorts. 'Not likely.'

They round the corner to find the consultant crouching behind a skip-bin. The faint smell of blood is in the air, a single spotlight lights the dingy alley. Jo stares pensively at the blood, wondering if she should be shocked or horrified. She can't muster up more than an air of detached interest. It's just another victim really, _she_ is not on a slab in the morgue.

'He went this way,' Sherlock murmurs, mostly to himself, starling her. He stares at something on the ground, the wall (_what?_) and starts moving around another corner. Lestrade nods and follows him around the corner to the right, leaving Joanna alone with a drying pool of blood.

She slouches a little in her coat, but doesn't follow. She wants a shower. She wants to sleep. She wants to be rid of these _damned heels_. A sound from the alley up the street and to the left draws her attention. Like a clang of metal. It's very much _not_ from the same direction as Sherlock and Lestrade had just disappeared to.

'Someone there?' she calls, stepping towards the mouth of the alley. Footsteps sound, moving away. 'Tech?' Her hand moves to the small of her back instinctively, reaching for a gun that's not there. She tries to be silent as she reaches the corner of the building, and turns into the alley quickly to catch them off guard. It seems empty of life, but there are several nearby turnoffs, another skip bin and a pile of empty boxes.

She walks forward cautiously, until another noise on her right makes her spin around and slip in God-only-knows-what in her ridiculous shoes (_I really should be prepared for running at all times, and what was that squelch?_). She's heading for the ground, arms flailing and undignified, unable to regain her balance, when someone grabs her around the waist and elbow with gentle hands.

She gasps, startled, and her hand closes around a familiar coat. The eyes looking down at her are familiar and full of laughter.

'Damn it, Sherlock!' she smacks him on the chest in frustration as she regains her footing and steps back. 'Don't do the spooky lurking-around-corners thing! We talked about this!'

His expression doesn't change. Nor does he say anything.

She looks around. 'How did you get here? Where's Greg?'

'Joanna?'

_That's Sherlock. That's Sherlock's voice. He's behind me, of course he's behind me (but he's in front of me too, how is he - )_

She glances back, and when she looks at the man who caught her, he's disappearing around a corner further up the alley. She staggers back as Sherlock and Greg turn into the alley.

'Find anything?' asks Greg, shining a flashlight at the walls, oblivious to her distress. He looks at her then. 'Jo? You okay?'

Sherlock is frowning. 'What? What is it?'

Her hands are shaking. She can't take her eyes of the spot she last saw him. 'You're here. You were here.'

Sherlock's frown deepens as Greg shines the light up the alley. 'I'm here…'

'No, no,' she needs to understand, 'no. You were _here_, I fell and you caught me, and you were _here_, but you weren't here, because you were with Greg and you came here, and you – the other you - he – went around the other corner - ' Sherlock's eyes widen throughout her hysterics. Greg swears under his breath and draws his gun, advancing up the alley.

'Sherlock, stay with her, get out to the others.' He disappears around the same corner. Sherlock, meanwhile, has Joanna's wrist in a vice-like grip and is practically dragging her from the alley.

By the time they reach the murder scene, Joanna is recovered enough to be able to keep up with him. Meanwhile, Sherlock is snarling something under his breath, looking thunderous. He doesn't stop until they're closer to the main road, in sight of the police tape, but out of earshot of the officers.

He turns to her suddenly. 'Did he hurt you?'

She shakes her head. He paces away, before turning sharply and advancing on her until their faces are inches apart. 'You stay with me from now on,' he orders.

Joanna speaks before she can stop herself, 'But how do I know you're _my_ you?'

He pulls back slightly like the thought hadn't occurred.

'Sherlock, he didn't hurt me,' she says, fervently, 'he didn't even _try_.'

His expression changes to something she hasn't seen before and he takes a sharp step back. She can't help but stare as his eyes close, and he swallows compulsively. 'Just stay with me,' he repeats quietly before donning an impassive mask, turning away and adjusting his scarf.

A wave of fatigue settles over her and she slumps back against a lamppost.

'I just wanted to come home and annoy you for not telling me I was the rebound,' she growls, face in her hands.

He smirks.

* * *

Lestrade finds them ten minutes later. Joanna huddled in her coat on a low wall close to the forensics set up, Sherlock arguing with a forensics officer nearby.

'No sign of him,' the DI says, catching their attention. 'I've sent some boys out looking, and put the word out on the wire, but if we're looking for your doppelganger…'

'I'd best stay out of the way,' Sherlock finishes, 'obviously.' He pulls out his mobile and starts composing a text.

Lestrade begins to look uncomfortable. 'Ah, listen,' he rubs the back of his neck as both Sherlock and Joanna turn to him, 'perhaps, at this stage, it may be worth…'

'No,' Sherlock says sharply.

Joanna looks between them. 'What?'

Sherlock glares at Lestrade as he answers. 'He wants to put you into witness protection.'

Joanna turns to Lestrade in alarm. 'What on _earth_ for? I haven't even been threatened.'

'Not overtly,' Greg grumbles.

'She stays with me!' Sherlock snaps.

'Oh, please don't start arguing.' She rises and steps between them. 'Greg, we're going home. We have you on speed dial if anything comes up. Okay?'

He looks dissatisfied, but agrees anyway, and this time it's Joanna leading Sherlock away.

'He thinks you're not safe with me,' Sherlock mutters, looking affronted.

'No he doesn't,' she replies, looking for a cab for the second time that night now that they've reached the main road. 'He thinks I'm not safe anywhere. It's utter bullshit. There's no threat to me.'

Sherlock takes her hand in his and pulls her to a stop. 'Here.' She turns to find a Jaguar idling at the curb behind them.

'Mycroft?'

'I texted him,' Sherlock admits holding up his phone. 'Much as I loathe admitting it, he may be able to shed some light on events.'

As they slide into the luxury interior, she realises he still hasn't let go of her hand.


	6. Chapter 5

Mycroft's townhouse isn't as dark and foreboding as Joanna had expected when she first came here several years ago. If anything it blends well into the street as nothing spectacular (apart from being a mansion, of course), and certainly gives no clues as to the wealth of power held by its only (_lonely?_) resident.

The car pulls through the gates and stops at the stairs to the front door. The driver pulls away as soon as the door shuts, leaving Joanna and Sherlock to their own defences.

Sherlock leads the way to the entrance and rings the bell.

Joanna follows, subdued. As she draws level with him she admits, 'The last time I was here was for your wake.' His eyes slide to her in the dim light filtering through the glass panes of the door and he opens his mouth to speak. At that moment, however, the door swings open to an impeccably attired Mycroft Holmes.

He watches them for a minute, before focussing on Joanna. 'I understand you are the victim of an unfortunate incident.'

Joanna rolls her eyes. 'Not _me_, Mycroft.' She can see Sherlock frown at the familiarity between them. She had become accustomed to the sometimes stilted, always confusing turn of conversation during Mycroft's weekly, and occasionally bi-weekly, appearances at her flat (_job/appointment/social event/family event/anywhere_). Following prolonged exposure, the man seemed to grow on her. He at least seemed to be making some effort at redemption, and she grew to almost enjoy his company (_sometimes, not too frequently_).

Mycroft doesn't move from the doorway, instead levelling his gaze upon his brother. Joanna slumps (_staring contest, victor gets dessert!_), and grabs onto Sherlock's arm, causing them both to look back at her. She then proceeds to use him as a crutch while she pulls off her shoes, leaving her only in stockings.

'There, much better,' she practically barrels past Mycroft and heads for the sitting room.

* * *

The room is overly formal, rarely used, except for those top secret, important meetings that can't take place anywhere else, and comfort is required (_or the illusion of it preserved_). Like many other rooms in the house, it seems too large (_for one person_), and Joanna can't help but pity Mycroft.

When she was last here, she sat in the corner of the sofa, quietly thanking other mourners for their condolences whenever they dared to offer, otherwise remaining silent and keeping her eyes on the fireplace. She stayed for no more than an hour before making her excuses and heading for the door, only to be caught in the foyer by the infamous "Mummy" (_and, oh, what a conversation that was_).

Now she sits in the same place, resting her elbow on the arm of the sofa, with her head in her hand and watching her friend and flatmate pace with frenetic energy before the fireplace. A glass of scotch appears under her nose, she sees that Mycroft has seen fit to pour one for himself. She takes the expensive crystal with a muted word of thanks and Mycroft seats himself in a nearby armchair.

'I don't know what to tell you,' he begins, stopping Sherlock in his tracks, 'quite simply, this is well outside my area of…expertise.'

Sherlock realises and explosive breath and slumps into the sofa beside her. 'And whose area is it?'

Mycroft considers before answering. 'There are…several avenues of enquiry that can be pursued. It may take some time.'

Sherlock stands and starts pacing again. 'We don't have _time_, we need answers now. _I_ need answers now!'

Joanna huffs at the conversation going on over her head and slouches back into the cushions, sipping her scotch.

'Sherlock, I can't offer you any. Not now, at least. And Joanna seems to be in no immediate danger.'

Jo raises her glass. 'Hear, hear.'

Sherlock ignores her. 'Her _body is in the morgue!_'

'I'm here, Sherlock.'

'_Our_ Joanna is in no immediate danger,' Mycroft amends.

'What is this, if not a threat?!' Sherlock snaps, agitated. 'Why is he doing this?'

Joanna is so tired, she can't think past the fog in her head to offer any answers.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. 'As I said, I will make enquiries.'

That perks Jo's interest slightly. 'Into cloning?'

He laughs. 'Among others.'

'Alternate universes?'

'Among others.'

'Androids? Time travel? Switched at birth? The Doctor?'

Mycroft chuckles again. 'You have quite the active imagination Joanna.'

Sherlock huffs. 'It's the scotch.'

* * *

The car is idling at the bottom of the driveway as they make their way down the front steps. Sherlock offers his arm as Joanna is wearing her shoes again. He is tense, faced with a murder too close to home, and a puzzle he can't fathom. The sun is just peeking over the East horizon. They slide once more into the heated interior and Sherlock directs the driver to take them to Baker Street, then busies himself on his phone.

Joanna, meanwhile, leans her head against the panelling and closes her eyes. Sherlock watches from the corner of his eye as she falls into a light doze. He endures about ten minutes of this before he pokes her awake. She gives a start and looks around at him, angrily.

'What?'

He stares at her. 'You trust me too much.'

She frowns briefly in confusion, but his only response is the thinning of his lips. She turns to look out the window. 'You don't make it easy sometimes.'

'I know,' he mutters, after a while.

Joanna looks back at him with a slightly disappointed expression. 'Do you really expect me to be scared of you? After all this time?'

'I believe you call it "common sense". Isn't that what Sally Donovan warned you about?' He doesn't meet her eye.

'Forget Sally Donovan. I threw common sense out the window when I moved in with you,' Joanna replies with a scoff.

'I wasn't _murdering_ you at the time.'

'You're not _murdering_ me now!'

They fall silent, not looking at each other.

'Stop feeling so guilty,' she says eventually, 'at least about this.'

Sherlock flinches almost imperceptibly. Joanna, closes her eyes for a brief moment.

'I didn't mean – '

'Yes you did.'

She looks at him not looking at her and feels vaguely ashamed of herself.

'Yes I did.'

Which effectively kills the conversation.


	7. Chapter 6

Two updates, cos it's been so long. I can't promise a smaller gap next time as I'm in the midst of some very severe personal, family and financial difficulties. I'll try. Also, I've taken some liberties with medical procedures. Enjoy.

* * *

Sherlock gets out of the car first, but doesn't rush to the door as usual. Rather, he stands waiting until Joanna (_pays_) follows and allows her to lead the way to the front door of 221B Baker Street. It's quiet inside, early enough in the morning for Mrs. Hudson to still be sleeping. Upstairs, the lights are still on. Joanna doesn't hesitate to close the curtains, kick off her shoes and flop onto the sofa, as dramatically as Sherlock often does.

Her eyes are closed no more than two minutes when something is wrapped around her upper arm. She rolls her face and peers up at Sherlock with one eye.

'What are you doing?' she asks cautiously.

He pays her no mind and proceeds to tighten the tourniquet.

'Sherlock? You are well and truly crossing normal friend and flatmate boundaries here…'

He raises a syringe and looks up at her with an eye roll and an expression that says "very well, I'll meet you halfway". 'May I?'

She doesn't bother with any more questions, at least he asked. 'If you insist.' He takes the sample quickly and carefully removes the tourniquet. She turns on her side to watch him make his way to the kitchen. The tinkering noises are soothing in their familiarity and she quickly finds herself nodding off.

By the time Sherlock comes back into the living room an hour later, she is fast asleep. He takes the afghan from the back of her chair and drapes it over her, stepping back and crouching to look at her (_living, breathing, alive_), sleeping fitfully. Mentally, he berates himself for his sentimentality, physically, he finds himself unable to look away.

Then the phone rings. The noise from the landline is shrill and piercing, and wakes Joanna instantly. For a moment they simply stare at each other as the phone continues to ring. He tilts his head. She blinks.

'Phone?'

He rises in one fluid movement and grabs the cordless from its stand on the mantle.

'Sherlock Holmes.'

'Hello, this is Adriana Mosse from St. Thomas Hospital. I'm trying to reach Doctor Joanna Watson?'

Sherlock's eyes flicker to Joanna as she sits up on the sofa. 'Why?'

There's a surprised pause on the other end. 'Umm, it's regarding her sister. I'm not able to reach her on her mobile?'

Ah, yes, the battery was on the stove. Or what was left of it. 'What about her sister?'

Joanna's head shoots up. 'Harry?' She stands and crosses to him. 'Give me the phone.'

He shakes his head as he listens to the reply.

'I'm afraid I can't say.'

'Give me the phone!'

He wrestles with himself for a moment before putting the phone on speaker. 'Go ahead,' he instructs.

'Doctor Watson?'

Joanna glares at him as she replies. 'Speaking.'

'My name is Doctor Adriana Mosse, I'm here at St. Thomas Hospital. Your sister Harriet was admitted some fifteen minutes ago with severe alcohol poisoning. You're listed as her next of kin, do we have your permission to pump her stomach? It's rather urgent at this stage, I'm afraid.'

'Yes of course, I'll be there in twenty minutes.'

Sherlock hangs up before she or Doctor Mosse can say so much as a "see you soon", and Joanna turns and hurtles up the stairs to change, leaving Sherlock alone in the living room. He growls in frustration and strides to the foot of the stairs.

'I don't have time to go with you!'

Joanna has left her door open, as usual. 'You don't have to! I'll go straight there, sit in Harry's room til she wakes up, and come straight back!' She hurries back down to find him blocking her way. 'Look, come, or don't, I don't care, but I'm going.' She pushes past him, but he grabs her arm.

'Harry will be fine, there's no reason for you to go,' he argues.

She blinks in disbelief, now furious. 'No reas- _She's my sister!_'

Sherlock breathes out harshly through his nose. 'You call me when you get_ into _the cab, you call me when you get _out of_ the cab, when you get to the hospital, when you're leaving -'

'You destroyed my phone!'

He fishes into his pocket and retrieves his own. 'Here, use mine.'

Joanna's anger dissipates instantly, and Sherlock blinks from her to the phone in his hand. 'Oh…'

She breathes a laugh and hangs her head. 'Sorry.' He shakes his head, takes her hand and places the phone into her palm.

'Call the landline unless I say otherwise. Alright?'

She nods.

'_Alright?_' he repeats, emphatically.

'Okay, yes, yes.'

She dashes out the door with his eyes on her back.

* * *

It's multiple signatures, three phone calls home and twenty minutes of waiting for Harry to be settled before Joanna is allowed into her ward. Upon entering, a nurse hands her a plastic bags with a mutter of 'Her clothes'. They smell of vomit and she groans, glad she thought to bring a bag for her sister just in case.

She finds Harry, closes the privacy curtains and settles into the uncomfortable chair to wait. Ten minutes into the boredom she gets a text. The identification on the screen says 'Joanna'.

_Going to Bart's. Text from now on. –S_

Joanna frowns as she taps out a reply. _I see you've fixed my phone._

The phone beeps a reply seconds later. _Not your phone. You and Irene happen to share the same network. –S_

_Irene's phone? You're on IRENE'S phone?_ She hits send viciously and freezes (_oh no. Oh no no. Oh why? Why did you send it?_).

She's still staring at the phone in horror when the reply arrives. _Problem? – S _

At this point she's not sure how he interpreted her response, but at least she has the chance to cover up any possible perception of jealousy (_which it was _not).

_Why didn't you use her battery?_

_Yours was lithium ion, hers is lithium polymer. – S _

That makes no sense to her, but if she presses the issue –

_No need to be jealous. –S _

Damn.

_I'm hardly jealous, I'd just like to understand why you destroyed my phone._

_Of course. – S_

Stupid, smartarse, irritating –

_Text me in fifteen minutes. – S_

'Why are you smiling like that?' comes the croak of her sister from the bed.

Joanna looks up. 'Hello, Harry. What was it this time?'

Harry chuckles. 'The four J's, sis.'

'Next time tell Jim, Jack, Jose and Johnny to hold off a bit.'

'Aww, don't be like that…'

Joanna rises abruptly. 'I'm calling in a favour for power of attorney and having you committed involuntarily.'

Harry blinks in surprise. 'What? Don't be stup – '

'Unless of course you're willing to go to rehab of your own volition?'

Harry says nothing but folds her arms over her chest in a show of defiance.

Joanna nods sharply and heads for the exit. She turns back briefly. 'It's for your own good Harry. I should have done this years ago.' She slips past the curtains as Harry snorts her derision. In the corridor outside, she places a call to Mycroft.

'Even my operatives don't work this quickly, Sherlock,' he drawls by way of greeting.

'Mycroft, it's Jo. I was wondering if you could help me with something?'

* * *

Sherlock is still smirking to himself as he fills the pipette. He'd never picked Joanna as the jealous type until Irene came along. It was an endless form of amusement. The phone pings at his side.

_Going to see Mycroft. Meet you at home._

The smile drops from his face instantly. Mycroft? What does she want with _him_?

_He'll call when he has something. – S _

_Not case related, tell you later._

He frowns at the message like it's done him some personal injustice. True, he had asked his brother to keep an eye on his friend (_friends. Plural. He'd said friends, but Mycroft just gave him a knowing look and smile, and twirled his sodding umbrella_), but he had not expected them to ... _bond_, for lack of another word. And now his brother had the benefit of three years more with Joanna, while he, Sherlock, had been sleeping under bridges with a gun at his back (_thinking of home the whole time, pushing through for the reward at the end of it all_). Jealousy gnaws at him each time he sees the two of them interact and while Joanna insists she found Mycroft's company less than pleasant, they have a _history_.

The phone pings.

_No need to be jealous._

Sherlock smiles again. Well played. The smile fades quickly as he looks back to his work. His tests are inconclusive. He knows he's getting nowhere, but can do little else without his brother's assistance. The DNA is useless when they know the whereabouts of the victim and the suspect, and the crime itself doesn't seem to have been committed.

He leans back and pinches the bridge of his nose against a headache. His mind is going in circles. It is the cruelest conceivable paradox that he cannot translate his own mind in even a hypothetical situation where he kills his best friend.

The thought itself is not something he wishes to dwell on.

With a frustrated growl he slips off the chair and out the door, grabbing his coat on the way. Moments later he's in a cab on the way to his brother's office at Whitehall. He lingers long enough to see Joanna depart in a cab for Baker Street (_familiar driver, predictable. Will get stuck in traffic because he turned left instead of right, idiot_), and hurries to be home before she is.

* * *

Joanna gets home an hour after leaving the hospital. Mycroft had admitted to being prepared for the inevitable and had the appropriate papers waiting for her when she arrived.

'I've also taken the liberty of arranging a rehabilitation facility,' he'd confessed as she scrawled her signature and initials in the marked boxes, 'my brother can attest to its efficiency.'

She'd looked up at him at that, surprised, but said nothing.

Mrs. Hudson meets her in the foyer as she comes in. She fusses with Jo's coat and takes the bag with Harry's clothes from her hands. 'I'll take care of this and bring it up later, you just sit down and have a cuppa.'

Jo gives the landlady-not-housekeeper a wan smile and ascends the stairs with a word of thanks.

Sherlock is already at his microscope (_probably raced you here, the git_).

'Any luck?' she asks, kicking off her shoes.

'No,' he says shortly. She places his phone near his elbow and he pockets it without a word.

'Right,' she frowns slightly, 'well, I'm taking a shower, if you need me.'

She pauses, then adds, 'Try not to need me.'

He hums in her general direction and she shakes her head, exasperated. Weariness had settled in her bones around an hour ago, and the case far from finished, at that. A shower and cuppa would be a great help.

As usual, however, something has to go horribly wrong.

She pushes open the bathroom door and the smell of blood stifles her senses. For a brief moment, all she can see is red on a dirty sidewalk. She blinks, takes a deep breath (_big mistake, God, the smell_), and switches the light on.

She takes a step back without really meaning to.

'Sherlock…'

There's a distracted 'What?' from the kitchen.

'There's a dead Joanna in the bathtub.'

He's suddenly _there_, crowding the door, blocking her view (_of herself?_ _This is insane_), but the image of her dead self and the blood on the floor (_the walls, the bathtub, the mirror_) is seared into her mind.

Sherlock spins back to face her, grabs her arm and drags her to his bedroom. He shoves her in with an order of 'Stay put', and pulls the door shut.

A hand from behind covers her mouth and she freezes.

'You won't scream,' a familiar voice breathes into her ear, 'you're not afraid of me. Because you understand, don't you?'

The hand moves away but she doesn't turn. For a moment she stands there, breathing and listening to Sherlock on his phone outside (_her Sherlock_).

'I'm letting you do this,' she whispers, 'you asked me to, and I'm letting you.' She turns and looks up into the familiar grey eyes. 'Why?'

Sherlock looks lost for a moment. 'I ask you moments earlier each time.' He touches her hair tentatively, 'He won't talk to me. But he needs to learn…'

He trails off and pulls a flash drive from his pocket and holds it out to her. 'Give this to him, he'll understand.'

She shakes her head. 'No.' She takes his face in her hands and pulls him closer. 'Explain. Please.'

He touches his forehead to hers. 'Trust me,' he murmurs, '_don't leave his side_'. The next minute he's pushing the drive into her hands and disappearing through the window. Seconds later, the door swings open and Sherlock strides past her, phone to his ear.

'How did he get _in_?' he's growling, 'We're Grade Three, Active, and somehow every criminal in London can slip past your security and into our flat - ', he breaks off abruptly upon catching sight of her expression and hangs up without preamble.

'What?' he grabs her by the shoulders and gives her a slight shake, 'What is it?'

Joanna blinks, falters. Her gaze flicks to the open window. It's enough for him to put it together and he launches himself toward it with an enraged snarl. She grabs his belt in a panic and pulls him back.

He curses and pushes past her, and she hears his steps in the corridor then on the stairs. A door slams, an affronted shout from Mrs. Hudson. Then silence. Suddenly she's all too aware that she's in the flat with a body (_her body?_).

Joanna takes a deep breath and holds it as she walks past the bathroom, releasing it only when she's in the living room. She falls back into her chair and presses the heel of one hand to her forehead. The other is still holding the flash drive.

There are sirens in the distance, a door opens downstairs. Joanna makes a split second decision and shoves the drive into her pocket.


End file.
